


Interlude

by zeldadestry



Category: Smallville
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-06
Updated: 2010-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:03:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex loves Clark, Lana loves her ex-girlfriend, and they both love art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

If Lex had been drinking he could admit how much he looked forward to Lana's visits. Hell, he went to the trouble of putting her on his staff just so he could be sure of them. It wasn't all down to that particular ulterior motive, of course. He did legitimately want to build an art collection and required an advisor so he could be sure he was getting his money's worth.

It all fit together so simply. She came to the mansion every other Wednesday for lunch. Afterwards she'd show him different pieces she thought he might be interested in. They discussed the pieces as works of art first but followed that with a thorough examination of the business angle, of each piece's prospect as an investment. She had a wonderful eye, refined in Paris although she talked very little about her years there. From what he had pieced together, she'd been crazy about her girlfriend but their relationship had ended badly. She returned to Smallville more in love with painting than ever before but with no trust in her own abilities. That troubled him.

"I'm interested in some work by an old friend of mine," he told her one summer afternoon. "She was a rare talent."

"What's her name?" she asked, pen at the ready.

"Lana Lang."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Don't tease."

"I'm not."

"I've stopped painting."

"Could I convince you to start again? I have considerable means at my disposal, you know."

"Why? I mean, why me?"

"I told you. A talent like yours is rare."

"You and your silver tongue."

"Most people call it forked."

"Right. You and your silver forked tongue. Flatterer."

"Don't pretend you're not susceptible."

"Alright, alright, you win. Tell me what you want and I might give it a try, just for you."

"It wouldn't be for me."

"Then who?"

"One of your old suitors."

"Suitors? When did you become so old fashioned?"

"The word seemed apt." He leaned back in his chair, put on his heavily practiced nonchalance. The warm air coming into the room from the open window felt heavy. It would rain soon.

"Are you pining, Lex?" Her tone was teasing, but the concern underneath it was unavoidable. He could barely say a word about Clark without her looking nervously between him and the windows, like she feared he might suddenly decide to leap from them.

She had a question for him, but he had his own questions about himself. Why did he feel confession would do him good? He could admit to her all he yearned for but, after all, what good could come of it? She was an employee and if they sometimes conversed as friends that was nothing but proof of his loneliness. The depths of his neediness dismayed him. "Why would I pine? I always get what I want. It's the primary benefit of being this rich."

"You're so full of shit."

He smiled. "If you say so."

"Oh, I say so." She shook her head at him. "I worry about you sometimes."

"That's not what I'm paying you for." She flushed at that, but he didn't feel guilty. It was important for people to know where they stood with him, he really believed that. Though they were friendly, she was not his friend. It was important to maintain that distinction. He pointedly ignored the part of his brain that was arguing that of course she couldn't be his friend because he had no friends, and was probably incapable of having friends. God damn, but he hated that part of his brain.

"You know, Lex, I don't come here because you pay me." Something in her voice made it impossible for him to look at her. He kept his gaze down, but heard her get up from the chair, felt her move round the table, recognized her perfume as she bent over him. It was Chanel No. 5. His mother had worn it. Lana's hand went to his chin and lifted it to encourage him to look at her. The skin of her fingers was soft, but her grip was firm. "We've known each other a long time. You can trust me." She let go of his face, but she kept staring at him.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"I know." This time when she touched him, when her arms went around him, he could feel it, what she was trying to give him, her sympathy. Very slowly, very gently, she kissed him at his temple, his left cheek bone, on the right corner of his mouth. There was no desire in it, no fierce want. There was only her long-standing affection.

When she pulled away, he kept his hand lightly on her own. "If you want a picture for Clark, you should paint it yourself." He shook his head, crossed his arms in front of him. "Oh, my god, are you actually pouting? Don't be such a pussy, Lex."

He smirked at her. He was never, ever, going to get used to hearing her swear. "I thought you liked pussy?"

"I do, but it's not a good look on you."

The question she had asked of him circled back through his mind. "Do you pine?"

She wavered, then, and even with her bob, her bright red lipstick, and the pale blue dress he recognized as Prada, she looked exactly as young and sheltered as she had standing behind the Talon counter dreaming of a life beyond Smallville. "Yeah, I do."

"That crazy girl you met in Paris?"

That offended her. She even stamped her foot in her shiny black boots. "Yes, that girl in Paris. If you met her, you'd understand."

"You did show me her picture once. I understand."

She stomped her foot again, and even gave a little huff. She was so much fun when she played the diva. Now he knew why people were always trying to discombobulate him. There was pleasure in watching the habitually cool and collected fall apart. "No, you don't understand, because it's not just how she looked."

"Lana, come on. I understand."

She looked at him closely and he nodded and she nodded back, because she knew what he was admitting. "You do, don't you," she murmured. "We're both total assholes."

"Assholes? Speak for yourself. I'm more of a bastard, frankly."

She pursed her lips, thinking. "Cowards?"

"We may be that," he admitted.

 

Lana returned on the first of September bearing a small wooden box which she placed on the desk in front of him. "Your newest acquisition," she announced.

He stared at it impassively and then turned his gaze on her. "I never authorized you to make purchases without my express consent."

She gave him the finger. "You'll like this, trust me." She gestured toward the box. "Do you want the honor or should I?"

"Show it to me."

She slid the top from the box and carefully lifted out what appeared to be another box, made of dark brown wood and covered in bubble wrap. "Close your eyes," she said. "It'll be more dramatic this way."

He did as he was told, which in itself was something of a miracle, and sat silently, listening to her unwrap the piece. She set it down on the table in front of him and he could hear the smile in her voice as she came around to stand behind his chair. "Open your eyes."

He looked down to see what appeared to be an antique wooden metronome. "I don't understand."

"Open it." He reached for it and held it gently in his hands before sliding the hook from the eye and removing the front piece. And, yes, there it was, a metronome, with a black and white picture of an eye affixed at the top. The high arch in the brow told him it was a woman's. "Start it," Lana encouraged. It was hard to understand how he could find orders from her so charming. He reached his hand toward it, almost hesitating, because he knew what was coming, the ticking that was regular as clockwork and potent as a heart beat. His fingers sought the top of the thin metal strip, pressing carefully against it until it slid out from behind its gate. Slowly the metronome began, and the hypnotizing eye traveled back and forth, back and forth.

"It's beautiful," he said, and he did not care if she heard the catch in his throat.

Her hand came down to rest on his shoulder. "Man Ray made it. His wife had left him. It's her eye."

"Oh." They both watched its arcing path, transfixed. "I love it, Lana."

"I knew you would."

"You're a smart girl." He smiled up at her and her hand stroked across his back.

"Thank you. May I offer you another gift? I'm afraid it's advice."

"If you must."

"Be brave before it's too late."

When she left he watched for her from his office window. She must have sensed him because, as she opened her car door, she suddenly looked up at the window and, squinting against the sun, stood on tiptoe and raised her hand up towards him as she waved goodbye. He stretched his arm down in return, like he was trying to touch her, then pressed his hand against his heart as though he were blessing her as she sped down the driveway. When she was out of sight he lowered his arm but still stood on, gazing in the direction she had gone, wondering how it was that two people, bound by regret, could come to find comfort in each other's loneliness.

Returning to his desk he sat still and quiet meditating on this latest addition to his collection. Was this to be his lasting comfort, only this, knowing that others had wanted as he wanted, needed and craved and missed as he needed and craved and missed? It was a beautiful piece, but what he appreciated most was Lana's understanding and sympathy. It was a beautiful piece, but he'd be damned if he'd spend his life like this any longer, in regret and solitude. Fuck that.

He let his impulse possess him and set out to the Kent farm for the first time in years.


End file.
